


ampersand.

by vantas



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Amnesia, Damsels Saving Themselves, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Memory Loss, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 07:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13243005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vantas/pseuds/vantas
Summary: They say there is a monster that lives beyond the forest. (Or: When people begin to disappear in the middle of the night, Shiro finds himself depending on the help of a stranger to get them back.)





	ampersand.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a gift to [meridachii](http://meridachii.tumblr.com/) for the [Shaladin Secret Santa](https://shaladinsecretsanta.tumblr.com/) exchange on Tumblr. They listed "fantasy" among their favorite tropes, so. Here we are! The fantasy AU that got 100% out of hand, becoming a 12k monstrosity instead of the 4k I originally outlined. Oops. 
> 
> In any case, Happy (Belated) New Year! ♥

**01\. Queen Allura is in a foul mood.**

This, in itself, is not uncommon.

Not because the queen is an unpleasant person (far from it, really), but because the crown has become a heavy weight upon her shoulders. It has been a little over five years since King Alfor's passing, and though Allura has tried her best to keep the kingdom afloat, tragedy has once again made itself known within Altea.

Its residents are disappearing.

Shiro stands at attention beside his queen, ever the loyal knight. The pauldrons of his armor are dastardly, uncomfortable things — but he can hardly bring himself to care when he notices how Allura looks like she may crumble under the proverbial pressure at any given moment. To her people, she is an unwavering source of stability. Strong. Steadfast. Just as capable of diplomacy as she is of leading an army to victory. People prostrate themselves before her feet, seeking her wisdom to guide them through the darkness, and she does not hesitate for a moment before answering their call. She is a queen through and through.

But despite her people's reverence, Allura has never taken well to being regarded as some sort of superior being. She has never taken well to people's awestruck gazes; their hushed whispers as they speak of the proxy of the Goddess. Allura was born a sacred altean, bright marks on her cheeks serving as physical proof of this fact. _The Crest of the Goddess_. Many brand themselves with her symbol in an attempt to become closer to the Celestial Guardians, the small of Shiro's back burning each time he remembers this fact, but Allura is one of few able to claim having been born with this mark.

Even so, she has never considered herself a holy being.

Shiro knows this fact better than anyone else. He has been there since the moment of her birth, after all, watching her struggle to grow into the role fate had bestowed upon her — and failing miserably to embrace it.

( _"I wish," she had told him, back when they were both young and foolish. "That they would no longer look at me like that. As if— As if I held all the answers."_

_They had been sitting together in the castle gardens, knees bumping together as they huddled closer to watch the stars. The markings on Allura's cheeks almost seemed to glow in the dim lighting, a pink hue to complement the otherworldly white of her hair. It was one of the rare occasions where the princess was free to be nothing more than a teenage girl, and Shiro was free to be nothing more than her best friend. No duties. No expectations. No all encompassing sense of dread as they failed to be what their roles dictated for the nth time._

_A boy with no memories of his origins could hardly be a monarch's right hand, the sensation of lacking something important keeping him from reaching his true potential._

_A girl who could not hear the voice of the Celestial Guardians could hardly be the proxy of the Goddess, the long hours spent communing at the temples amounting to nothing but wasted time._

_But that was all that people saw when they looked at them, and with Allura's words, Shiro was forced to face their reality once again. He sighed, tearing his gaze away from the night sky in order to look at his princess. "You are the closest thing they have to their gods," he had replied, not missing the minute flinch of her shoulders as he spoke. He was well aware of the blasphemy in his wording, the deliberate choice to not claim the faith, but he could care less when he had a friend to comfort. "They think you know everything because of your connection to the Goddess, Princess."_

_"I can speak to the damned Guardians no more than you can," she had scoffed, tone sharp — but he knew better than to take it personally. The bite in her tone was not directed at him, but at the situation they had both been forced into. "I have never heard their voice. Not even a whisper, like the prophets claim to hear."_

_To be born a sacred altean had never meant one was born with all the answers. Sometimes, it just meant trying to fit into shoes that were not right for you, even if everyone else insisted they were._ )

They hold an audience with the citizens each day, and each day they are greeted by the same disheartening sights. Splotchy faces. Cheeks covered in tears. Voices that have become hoarse from how long their owners have been wailing in grief, shouting the name of a person who can no longer be found. The people say there is a monster that lives in the forest, voracious with hunger. Fairies, some claim. Unruly beasts, others insist. Flesh eating abominations that leave nary a trace of their victim, they all agree. Imaginations run wilder with each passing night, but the facts remain the same.

People are disappearing. Wives, husbands, children, beggars, thieves — the list could go on, for there is no specific quality or trait tying them all together. Some of them had been safely tucked into their beds. Others, wandering the streets at night. The only thing they all have in common is that they have all vanished without a trace, leaving only their weapons and assorted knickknacks at the scene.

If Shiro were a more optimistic man, he would say the victims are just waiting to be found. That there's some corner of the land they've yet to inspect. That if they keep looking, they'll find the people who have gone missing alive and well. But optimism has never been among his strengths, and judging by the grim look on Allura's face, it seems that she shares his thoughts. The chances of finding their missing citizens in one piece are slim, even if Shiro desperately hopes to be wrong.

"There has to be something we're missing," Allura sighs, brows furrowed as she scans the maps and reports set out before her. She drums her fingers against the wooden table, a clear sign of her agitation, before she casts a glance at her most trusted commanders and generals. They have been in this meeting for a little over two hours, and it feels like they're getting nowhere. "Commander Hira," she calls, "A family disappeared in the western districts two nights ago. What news do you bring me of this?"

Hira straightens her posture, meeting her queen's gaze without a fail, but not without some hint of fear. Shiro notices the way her larynx bobs, most likely in an attempt to soothe her nerves. While Allura is an understanding woman, her patience runs short when met with failure after failure. "Your Majesty, my men have restlessly scouted districts three through eight," Hira declares. There is an unsaid _but_ at the end of that statement.

"And?" Allura presses on, her fingers stilling.

"... And," Hira echoes, after a beat. "The results are the same as in all other districts. My men reported no additional findings, beside those already brought to our attention by their neighbors. It's as if they vanished from this realm without a trace."

"Maybe a monster got to 'em," one of the generals cuts in, his voice a mockery of the accent shared among the commoners. "Fairies, right?"

" _General_ ," Allura snaps, twisting around to glare at the man. "My father may have accepted your... particular brand of humor, but make no mistake. You will find that I have little patience for those who cannot respect our citizens."

The general almost shrinks in on himself, an apology spilling through his lips.

Allura turns her attention back to the others in the room, but her mood has taken yet another dip. "Now... I wish to discuss the matter of our defenses."

The meeting continues for yet another hour and a half, though by the end of it, they have learned nothing new. It feels a little like witnessing the slow decline of King Alfor all over again, the same feeling of helplessness and desperation seeping into Shiro's bones. It's not quite the same situation, no. He had been too young to do anything to save his king, forced to watch as some unknown illness sapped him of his energies, leaving him ashen and emaciated. This time, both Shiro and Allura are supposedly in the right position to do _something_ to put an end to this hopeless situation.

Whatever that mysterious something is, however, they have yet to identify it.

He watches Allura discretely space out as the remaining commanders and generals file out of the room, each of them looking as weary as Shiro feels. It's not until they're gone that Allura reaches for his right arm, glancing up at him with unfocused, bloodshot eyes. The bags under her eyes are more easily noticeable when she's looking directly at him, and Shiro can practically feel the moment she forces air into her tired lungs. Every breath is like pulling teeth; difficult and needlessly painful. Shiro can do little but lay his left hand over her own, squeezing ever-so-slightly in a display of solidarity.

"Shiro," she says, terribly quiet. "I don't know what else I'm supposed to do. Everyone depends on me, and yet—"

"You are doing everything you can," he assures her, rubbing his thumb over the delicate skin of her knuckles. "This isn't your fault."

"No, perhaps it's not," she responds. There's a sense of resignation in her tone. "But I _am_ responsible for the wellbeing of my people, and right now... I am failing them. Perhaps if it were my father, he would have put an end to this already."

"You're not King Alfor. You're your own person," Shiro says, though not unkindly. It doesn't stop him from feeling guilty as her eyes widen for a split second, hurt apparent in her gaze, before her expression shutters off. He finds himself quickly adding: "Remember that this is something without precedence. You're a great ruler, Allura."

But all Allura does is nod, giving him a wry smile. "You're right," she agrees, for all the wrong reasons. "I am not my father."

* * *

**02\. His mistake haunts him into the wee hours of the morning.**

He lays in bed awake, mind running through all the different things he could have chosen to tell Allura at that moment. None of them include a comparison between her and her late father. But — Shiro just had to go ahead and defy all common sense, reminding Allura of her own perceived failures. He's known since they were both young that the queen has always been unnaturally harsh on herself. She has always striven to do better, to _be_ better. She has never felt at ease within her own skin, reaching for some unattainable form of perfection despite the fact she is only made of flesh and bone. She has always sought to present an image of strength; there is no room for weakness when one must lead.

And Shiro, _the hypocrite,_ wishes she would allow herself to be vulnerable.

Witnessing one monarch run themselves to the ground was enough. He doesn't need an encore.

Sleep alludes him for several hours. From his chambers, he can see the way the lights in the town dwindle one by one, until the area adjacent to this side of the castle is plunged in darkness. He knows this means it's way past midnight. He knows that means he's _exhausted_ , his eyelids heavy and his feet swollen full day of work. But even so, he's still unable to catch some much needed rest. It seems like he'll have better luck giving up on sleep entirely and resigning himself to another task, like tackling the incomplete reports currently stacked on top of his desk. It's not as if he'll have the time to work on them during daylight hours, after all.

He's seconds away from doing exactly that when he hears something coming down the hallway, just beyond his door. _Footsteps_. Three pairs of them, heavy and entirely unlike the night guard's rhythmic gait. He holds still, listening as they walk past his room and continue eastbound, in direction of Allura's own chambers. It's only when he's sure the coast is clear, certain he won't deprive himself of the element of surprise, that he acts.

Immediately reaching for his sword and shield, he forgoes his armor for obvious reasons. There's no point in trying to save his own skin if he fails to save his queen, having wasted his time fumbling with chainmail and buckles.

He all but bursts out of his room, spurred forward by a sense of urgency. Something cold grips at his heart as he moves forward, a pressure in his throat keeping him from getting enough oxygen in his lungs. It's both the battleborn anxiety he has become terribly accustomed to — and the fear for Allura's wellbeing. _Something_ clatters to the floor, a familiar scream reaching his ears, and he makes haste. He hopes, desperately, that someone else has become aware of the intruders in their midst. That someone else has heard the ruckus, and has gone to search for backup. Even a single guard would be a great help while Shiro keeps the intruders busy.

Though, somehow, he gets the feeling he won't be so fortunate.

When he gets to Allura's room, the journey feeling more like an eternity and less like several meter's walk, the sight that greets him is enough to chill him to the bone.

Said _chill_ is almost immediately replaced by fury.

Allura is awake, trashing desperately as she claws at the arms of the _thing_ currently pinning down, the knife she usually keeps under her pillow now laying on the floor halfway across the room. It's covered in a shimmering, black liquid — and he can easily identify the source when he lays his eyes on the intruders. The two standing before him are humanoid, that much he can say for certain, but everything else about them is grotesque and unnatural. Yellow eyes, purple skin and sharp, black claws. Black blood drips from a gash on one of the monster's foreheads, falling onto Allura's face as the beast keeps one hand wrapped around her throat, rendering her unable to scream or shout or even _breathe_.

( _"Maybe a monster got to 'em,"_ the general had said.

It had been a sarcastic quip A mockery of the theories brought forward by their citizens.

But now—)

"Get away from her!" he yells, brandishing his sword. He doesn't know what he can do against two monsters that are easily twice his size. Nothing, most likely. But at the very least he can hope to stir up enough of a ruckus to alert someone else of what's happening.

The two ( _two?_ ) intruders turn to look at him, apparently startled by his presence. Allura's struggles increase in intensity, kicking at their torso to no avail. Her eyes are desperate as she looks at Shiro, mouthing something he can't quite understand, and it only serves to further incite his fury. Even so, it doesn't seem like the monsters notice (or care) for Allura's struggling. They bare their sharp teeth at Shiro in a parody of a smile.

When they speak, it's in a distorted, garbled mess. The sound is jarring enough to cause Shiro to recoil, his stomach churning uncomfortably as his ears are forced to listen to something so unnatural.

He understands every single word they're saying.

"Another one?"

And—

"Shut him up."

Belatedly, he realizes what Allura has been trying to tell him.

He noticed it the moment he entered the room. There should have been three intruders, not two.

( _"Behind you."_ )

He's getting thrown across the room before he can do anything about it, his back impacting the wall with a sickening crack as _something_ ruptures inside of him.

And then there is nothing.

* * *

**03\. His mouth tastes like shit when he wakes up.**

Or, more specifically, it tastes like a mixture of blood, dirt _and_ shit. He's stuck spitting and hacking for a good minute, disgust causing bile to rise up his throat as he vaguely becomes aware of the grittiness clinging to the flesh of his cheek. He can barely make out the outline of his hand under the dim moonlight, and it's no surprise that he ends up smacking himself in the nose when he tries to rub at his face. This, he supposes, is what he gets for falling asleep outside.

Except he never fell asleep last night.

He shoots up immediately, Allura's name on the tip of his tongue — and then proceeds to regret it. There's a sharp, stabbing sensation in his stomach, painful enough to cause him to double over. He stays in that position for what feels like an eternity, inhaling and exhaling (once, twice, _thrice_ ) to get him through the pain. It doesn't really do much, but at least it helps him brace himself for any further movement. He needs to get up. He needs to assess his current situation. He needs to find Allura and get her _back_ because, if his last bits of recollection are true, then she is in grave danger.

He's already witnessed the death of one monarch. He refuses to sit through the death of another.

Getting up is easier said than done, however. His limbs are an uncoordinated mess. Heavy and numb, they feel less like they're made out of flesh and bone and more like he's attached blocks of stone to his torso. When he gets up, he nearly topples over under his own weight. He doesn't have to pat himself down to know his sword and shield are gone. All he has on him right now are the clothes on his back, several pounds of dried mud, and shoes that were not designed for a wilderness expedition.

This is fine.

Everything is fine.

He has the situation under control.

(He most definitely does not.)

The first thing he does is inspect his current surroundings. This is easier said than done, considering the fact he can barely see the ground beneath his own two feet, never mind what lays a couple yards away from him. Nonetheless, he can at least tell he's currently in _some_ part of the forest — hopefully the same one just beyond the edges of the castle town. The moonlight provides enough illumination for him to make out the canopies of the trees around him, but not much else. The ground feels somewhat slick and muddy, like it's rained sometime in the past few hours, and that more or less explains why his clothes cling to his body with sticky humidity. It doesn't explain, however, how he got here.

It doesn't explain why he's alive, either.

( _"Shut him up."_ )

A shudder runs up his spine as he remembers the sheer size of the monsters in Allura's chambers. They must be the ones responsible for the recent disappearances, but if that's the case — he can't bring himself to understand how no one has spotted them in action so far. He can't wrap his mind around the fact that there was never any sign of a struggle, that there had never been a witness, when he heard them so clearly and witnessed Allura's fight with his own two eyes.

He doesn't know what he's going to do if he's unable to retrieve the queen.

He doesn't want to consider the fact she may be dead by now.

Digging his nails into the palms of his hands, he closes his eyes for a moment to regain his focus. There's no point in getting himself worked up when it will only lead to sloppiness. There's no purpose in giving into the anger coiling in his stomach, urgency keeping the pain at bay as he tries to formulate a plan. He needs to figure out where he is, first and foremost. Get word out to the castle of the queen's disappearance, if they haven't figured it out already, and begin the search. He is her knight, and it has always been his responsibility to keep her safe. He promised he would do that much, always and forever.

So, he takes a step in one direction—

"I didn't save you just so you could get yourself killed."

—and immediately hears someone scoff behind him.

He's turning around before he can even begin to consider what a bad idea that is, his whole body feeling like wet sand as he all but stumbles over his own two feet. A hand shoots out to grip his wrist, keeping him upright, but the ensuing pain makes him almost wish he had fallen on his ass, instead. _Almost_. Stars burst from behind his eyes. Heat suddenly curls its way up his arm, creeping into the rest of his body and comfortably settling into the small of his back. It doesn't stop him from hissing in pain, his whole body sore from when he hit the wall. Not for the first time, he wonders how he survived the impact.

"Careful," the person in front of him says, sharply. The gentleness with which they hold him, however, does not match their tone. The person's grip shifts to better compensate for Shiro's less-than-stellar balance, allowing him to lean against them without causing any additional pain for his tired limbs. "The galra did a number on you," they say. "You should be resting."

His companion's features are more discernible now that Shiro's basically pressed to their side. Fair skin, dark hair, and a torn cloak that only barely passes for clothing. A young man, he realizes, closer in both height and build to Allura than himself.

 "Who—?"

"Keith," the man responds automatically, easing him into a sitting position by the foot of one of the trees. Once that's done, he's pulling a canteen out of seemingly _nowhere_ and wordlessly pushing it into Shiro's hands.

Shiro doesn't know how to react, besides perhaps by slowly accepting the fact this must be a hallucination crafted by a mind in its death throes. Perhaps he did not survive the impact, after all. It would certainly explain why he's currently being coddled by a stranger, being offered water that he's sorely tempted to drink in one big gulp despite knowing he definitely should not be ingesting anything given to him by an unknown.

So, instead of accepting this kindness like Keith surely expects him (hopes for him) to do, he sets the canteen down and stares at him. There are about a hundred different questions he could ask right now, but for the sake of actually _getting_ somewhere, he settles on one: "What happened?"

"You were kidnapped by the galra," Keith says, unhelpfully, and there's that word again. _Galra_. "And now you're here."

Shiro can't stop the huff passes through his lips, nor does he particularly want to. There's that familiar anger bubbling up once again, always battling against his own self-control. "You don't say," he replies, voice laced with frustration. "And who are the galra? _Where's the queen?_ "

He tries to lean into Keith's space, to use his height to his advantage, but there's an exceedingly warm hand on his chest firmly keeping him in place. He tries to swat it away, but all he really ends up doing is harmlessly smacking the back of his own hand into Keith's arm. If Keith looks unimpressed, Shiro can't really tell. The lighting here is really, _really_ shitty.

"Parasites. Most people can't see them. They probably wanted you for one of their experiments," he responds, only marginally more helpful than his last attempt. The keyword here is _marginally_. Shiro is startling at the last part of that sentence all the same. "... I guess they thought you were dead."

 _Dead_.

He was spared by the incompetence of his kidnappers, but it doesn't sound like Allura shared his luck. His mouth is dry as he considers Keith's words. _Most people can't see them_. Allura's divine heritage is enough to explain this phenomenon, but he's left wondering how he became an exception to the rule. In the same breath, he's left wondering how _Keith_ is an exception to that rule. "Experiments," he echoes back at him, fearing for his friend's life. "And the queen?"

"... I didn't see them carrying anyone else," Keith responds, slowly. Shiro wishes he knew him well enough to be able to tell if he's lying, or simply hesitant about offering information. "I just saw them dump you. That's it."

"Did you see where they were going?" Shiro asks, both scared and hopeful. If he can at least get a rough idea of where the galra were heading, some _hint_ of the direction they might have taken Allura, then he'll have more of a chance of finding her (and perhaps, the other missing citizens) than anyone else. He can start his journey immediately, sending a courier from any of the towns surrounding Altea's forest to alert the castle — but that is assuming he's where he assumes himself to be.

" _No,_ " Keith suddenly snaps, narrowing his eyes at him. The hand on Shiro's chest pushes down, causing yet another wave of pain. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, hands gripping at Keith's arm on reflex, but the man does not relent. "You're not going after them," he tells him. "I'm taking you back to the castle first thing in the morning."

Ah. There's his confirmation, he supposes.  At this moment, however, it's hardly worth celebrating.

"No!" Shiro gasps, pressing his fingers against Keith's arm. Desperation grips at his throat. He's well aware this could be the only lead he's got. "Please," he pleads. "Just tell me where they went. All I need to know is the direction."

"You can barely stand up by yourself," Keith points out. "How are you going to go after them? You're just going to get yourself killed."

He knows that. He knows that the heaviness in his limbs will only impair his ability to rescue his queen. He knows that it's not normal to feel like knives are being driven into his internal organs every time he moves, but he _has_ to try. He can't leave her alone. He promised, back when he was but a child. He swore to keep her safe — and now he was failing her.

" _Please_ ," he repeats, feeling very much like one of them men who roam the streets at night, their minds a thousand miles away from their own bodies. "I can't leave her to die. _I can't_."

There's a pause, here. Keith's fingers curl around the fabric of Shiro's shirt, his knuckles digging into the bruised flesh below. Shiro thinks, almost hysterically, that Keith is seconds away from hauling him to his feet and forcibly carrying him back to the town. But instead, all he does is lean away from Shiro, the look on his face undecipherable in the darkness.

"... Do you love her?" he asks, his condescending attitude abruptly gone.

"She's my friend," Shiro says, aware of how pathetic he must sound. "Please, all I need to know is where they went."

He hears Keith inhale through his nose, the outline of his shoulders slowly rising as the pressure against Shiro's chest lessens, and then—

"Okay."

Shiro can't help but to stare, uncertain he heard him correctly. "... Okay?"

"Okay," Keith repeats, and Shiro can almost hear the resignation in his voice. He sounds like he's both waged and lost a war. "I'll help you."

" _Thank you,_ " Shiro breathes out before he can stop himself. He nearly knocks the canteen (lovelorn and almost forgotten) over as he moves up, adjusting his position against the tree. "Thank you, Keith. Please, tell me where they went."

But Keith shakes his head, pulling his hand away from Shiro's chest — only to hold it out to him with the intention of helping him to his feet. "I'm not telling you," he says. Shiro almost opens his mouth to protest before Keith speaks up again, a wry smile just barely visible on his face. "I'm going to help you."

* * *

**04\. In the end, he ends up chugging down all of the water.**

Keith gets him up to speed while they set up camp, his staunch refusal to allow Shiro to trek through the forest at night forcing him to settle down despite the anxiety rolling in his gut. The galra, he tells him, are a parasitic race of unholy abominations. They have always had a habit of whisking innocent men and women away, collecting them for the sake of furthering their master's own research, but their activity has never been quite so prolific. For the past two decades, their offenses have been limited to the occasional kidnapping every other fortnight. Not ideal by any means, no, but nowhere near as alarming as their current actions. While Keith assures him that the galra tend to prolong the lives of their victims for as long as physically possible, it does little to soothe Shiro's concerns.

If anything, it just makes them worse.

"We'll reach Daibazaal before anything can happen to her," he assures him, not very reassuringly at all.

Shiro furrows his brows, forcing himself to deal with the pain in his abdomen. The water helped him shake off the lingering disorientation, but his injuries are something only time will heal. "How do you know all this?"

"Because," Keith says, attempting to start a fire with materials scavenged from the forest. They managed to gather enough dry wood to build a makeshift fire pit, but even so, he fumbles with a lack of coordination that reveals his little experience. "I've... lived here for a while. I see things. They're the only ones that pass through this part of the forest."

That is enough to bring Shiro to a complete halt, his hands stilling midway through their attempts to set up a bed for the night. He turns to Keith immediately, unable to and unwilling to keep the accusation out of his tone when he speaks up. "And you _never_ thought to tell anyone about it?"

He hears him as he sucks in a shaky, unsteady breath. Vindictively, Shiro thinks this is right. He deserves to feel guilty if what he says is true. "I can't," he utters weakly, as if that's any sort of explanation.

"What do you mean," Shiro begins, "you _can't_? Have you even tried at all?"

Keith drops the materials he was using to light the fire, and Shiro can make out the outline of his body in the darkness. He's staring at his arms, flexing the fingers of his hands before bringing one of them up to rub at the back of his neck. "I just—" he cuts off, lowering his hand and moving away from the pit. "I can't. I just... can't. You can start the fire. Goodnight, Shiro."

He then proceeds to go to sleep. Or, he _pretends_ to sleep, at the very least. He doesn't answer when Shiro calls his name, demanding (and then asking) he explains himself. He doesn't even budge when Shiro threatens to haul him to his feet, only curling up under that cloak of his. Shiro's pretty stubborn, himself, but he can only try to _out_ stubborn someone else for so long before he has to admit defeat. He ends up starting the fire himself a while later, wondering how someone who's supposedly lived in the wilderness for a while could have so much trouble with it.

It's not until he's falling asleep on the ground, eyelids heavy, that he realizes Keith had said his name.

* * *

**05\. This epiphany is forgotten in the morning.**

It might be because it's inconsequential.

Or it might be because of the nightmares that plague his mind well into the morning.

( _Visions of smoke and ash. Of a woman with sharp teeth and glowing yellow eyes, her face slick with the blood of the fallen gods. Three bodies lay on the ground. Three friends, now gone forever. Shiro is pinning someone to the ground, a pool of red sluggishly growing bigger and bigger as they struggle against his grip. There are tears in the corners of their eyes, the color just as bright and beautiful as it always has been, but so terribly out of place while surrounded by the miasma of death._

 _"You have to fight her control," they try to plead with him, the grip of their hands slippery as they try to push him away. "This isn't you! You have to snap out of it! Please, Shiro—!"_ )

He wakes up with a start, a crick in his neck making itself known as he turns his head, disoriented. The daylight burns into his retinas, blinding him momentarily, right before his eyes land on Keith. The man is crouched next to him, one hand hovering over Shiro's face as he stares at him with wide eyes. He realizes, with a strange sense of nostalgia, that his eyes are purple. A bright shade, unlike anything Shiro has ever seen before.

Keith's larynx bobs, his lips parting momentarily as if he's debating whether to say something or not. Shiro's gaze slides over to his gloved hand, still poised as if to shake him by the shoulder, a minute tremble in his fingers. The moment he does that, however, Keith pulls away.

"We need to go," he tells him, suddenly breathless.

If he resents him for his actions last night, he has an odd way of showing it.

Shiro pushes himself up into a sitting position, bones creaking in protest after spending a whole night sleeping on the ground. Most of the pain is gone, surprisingly enough, but there is a lingering stiffness to his extremities. In the daylight, he can see bruises spread across his limbs, mottled spots of red where the galra must have nicked his skin. He lifts his shirt out of curiosity, and isn't terribly shocked to see his entire torso is in a similar state. He can only imagine what his back must look like.

Keith has wordlessly turned away from the display at this point, eyes narrowed as he stares at the ground. Shiro's about to say something to him, but then the other man is pushing himself up to his feet, walking away from him. Now that he's no longer trying to squint through the darkness, Shiro finally notices there's a rucksack carelessly tossed to the side of the tree Keith had propped him against last night. He supposes that answers the question of where Keith got that canteen from, at least.

He's only gone from his side for a moment, and when he comes back, he's pressing a small package into Shiro's hands. Shiro looks up at him, perplexed, uncurling his fingers and prying apart the cloth. It takes him all of two seconds, his brain struggling to wrap itself around Keith's attitude towards him, to comprehend he's holding a loaf of bread.

"You're..." Shiro starts, vacillating between ways to continue that sentence as he regards the food in his hand. "You're really prepared, huh?"

It's not what he meant to say in the slightest. He thinks Keith knows it as well, judging by the way the corner of his lips curl upwards. Without really thinking about it, Shiro finds himself breaking off a piece of bread and holding it out to his (questionable) companion.

Keith blinks at him, raising both of his eyebrows, before he shakes his head. "Already ate before you woke up," he tells him, tilting his head while amusement makes itself apparent on his face. "But... thanks."

Somehow, Shiro has a hard time believing him. Keith's somewhat on the thin side, now he can get a better look at him. There are bags beneath his eyes, his lips chapped and splotchy. Though his skin is still pale, Shiro can make out the telltale discoloration of an old sunburn on his nose, cheeks and chin — which is to be expected, considering Keith had told him he's lived out here for a while. Even with the canopy of the trees providing a much needed respite from the sun, he can't imagine they're capable of neutralizing the summer heat.

"Are you sure?" he asks, hand still outstretched towards him.

"I'm sure," Keith confirms. "Eat up. You need it more than I do."

And though Shiro wants to argue against that, he doesn't.

He more or less inhales the loaf of bread in less than five minute's time, picking the crumbs off his hands as he become keenly aware of how hungry he felt. He doesn't know how long it's been since Allura and he were taken from the castle, but judging by the sun's position, he would assume it's been somewhere between six to seven hours.

Those are six to seven hours too many.

As he pushes himself off the ground, he takes a moment to observe the man standing before him. He doesn't know how to feel about Keith. He doesn't know if he should trust him, last night's line of questioning still lingering on his mind, but—

(Heat curls around his lower back, oddly comforting. Keith is the only lead he has.

He knows this is the perfect setup for a tragedy, but he finds himself wanting to trust him nonetheless.

It feels, without any rhyme or reason, a little bit like a homecoming.)

"Listen... Keith," he starts, lamely. "About last night—"

But Keith cuts him off, the straps of his rucksack slung over his shoulder as he takes a couple steps past him.

"It's a five day journey to Daibazaal," he says, ignoring Shiro's intentions and pushing onward like nothing has happened. "If we don't start moving now, it'll take us even longer."

Distantly, Shiro recognizes Keith is not his friend even if some part of him seems to believe he is. His guilt is something that can be resolved another day; a non-priority. He needs to save Allura, first and foremost.

Shiro meets Keith's gaze.

"Let's go."

* * *

**06\. It takes them a while before they reach the first signs of civilization.**

Keith is quiet for most of the trip.  He answers when spoken to, providing as much information as he's able ( _willing_ ) to share and giving Shiro a full inventory of his belongings without a shred of hesitation.  He doesn't purposely start any arguments, their mishap on the first night something of an outlier — but all bets are off when Shiro suggests they spend the night at a local inn.

" _No._ "

Shiro cocks an eyebrow, staring pointedly at the dirt smeared all over Keith's entire being. "Keith," he says, slowly as if he were talking to a small child. For all intents and purposes, Keith is behaving as petulantly as one. "I'm wearing the same clothes I wore to bed _days_ ago. _You_ look filthy. You said you have enough coins for anything we need, so we're going."

" _No_ ," Keith repeats, the outline of his crossed arms visible beneath the fabric of his cloak.  

Shiro massages the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, a gesture that reminds him way too much of Allura. He stops, mouth suddenly dry. " _Keith_ ," he repeats, attempting to swallow the lump that's formed in his throat. "Why not?"

Keith gives him a look that makes him feel as if though the answer should be obvious, even though it really isn't. Not in the slightest. "Because," he begins, "Walking into a town isn't a good idea, that's all."

"That doesn't make sense," he retorts. He's a knight, _yes_ , but even a knight needs a proper bath and a fresh change of clothes. This is inhumane. "You were ready to walk me back to the castle _days_ ago!"

"Yeah, but—" Keith responds, waving his hands in some sort of vague gesture. "That was different! _This_ is different!"

"How?!"

"It just _is_!"

It is absolutely not. Not in any way that can be understood by the average human being, at least, which Shiro totally is. As for Keith — it's still up for debate.

Shiro ends up putting an end to this debate in an equally as average human way. Which is to say, he grapples Keith by the waist, ignoring his startled yelp as he hoists him over his shoulder. For someone who was able to hold Shiro down a couple nights ago, he's suddenly incapable of breaking out of Shiro's hold. Shiro would be more inclined to question this, if not for the fact that Keith more or less knocks the wind out of him by pounding his fists against his back.

He's still not letting go of him, though. He's feeling particularly petty this evening.

"Shiro!" Keith shrieks, nearly blowing out his eardrums from the sheer volume of his voice. He's slamming the sides of his fists against his upper back, once, twice, _thrice_ — and seemingly unwilling to relent for the time being. "Put me down! _We're not going_!"

If Shiro were a more patient man, he would probably use this time to reason with Keith.

But he's not.

So, instead of doing that, he proceeds to purposely jostle Keith, causing his unwilling companion to hiss out an admirably long string of curses. Some of them familiar; others, not. Shiro tilts his head in the general direction of Keith's face, knowing very well that he can't see anything but Shiro's ass and the ground beneath them, and smiling despite (or, perhaps, _because of_ ) it. "Language," he scolds, jokingly. "We're going. You need a bath, and I need new clothes and a weapon. It's just for one night."

Because, as much as he loathes to admit it, he's only going to get himself murdered if he goes unprepared.

"I could leave you, and then you wouldn't have any coins to spend," Keith bites out, arms now hanging limply over his head. He seems to have given up on treating Shiro's back as a punching bag, at least.

"If you wanted to leave me," Shiro retorts, "you would have done so already."

Keith's silence is telling.

They end up heading into the town, anyway, Keith eventually asking to be let down in order to willingly walk by Shiro's side. From the corner of his eyes, Shiro can see the way Keith seems to shrink in on himself. People stare at them, their expressions both startled and filled with unwanted curiosity.  Whispers reach his ears, and Shiro imagines they must make quite the pair.  Two filthy men; one looking like he may have come out of the losing end of a bar fight (he might as well have), and the other looking like he crawled out of the nearest pigpen (it's a close thing).

"Are you okay?" he finds himself asking, sticking closer to Keith now that they are among other people. It's far too easy to bump shoulders with him, allowing Keith to determine the pace with which they walk through the crowded streets. 

"I'm fine," Keith says, chewing on his lower lip with enough intensity to make Shiro think he's seconds away from breaking the skin.

"You sure?" he asks. "You look kind of tense."

"I'm not tense," his companion immediately snaps back, stubborn as usual. But this time, there's something of a pause before his tone softens. "... I'm just tired," he adds. "We've been walking for a while."

"... Alright" Shiro replies, quietly and unconvinced.  "Let's see if news from the castle have reached this town before we turn in for the night, okay?"

"Okay," Keith echoes, and then proceeds to seemingly tune out everything around him.

* * *

**07\. People, as it turns out, are in a state of unrest.**

The queen has not held an audience in the last couple of days, but word of her disappearance has yet to reach the town. Or, perhaps, it's been purposely kept under wraps for the sake of preventing a tumult.  It's one thing to say civilians have gone missing overnight.  It's another to announce that someone had penetrated the castle defenses, whisking the queen away with no one any the wiser.  Keith accompanies him as he purchases the services of a courier, carefully wording his message so only those among Allura's trusted commanders would be able to decipher it. 

They then proceed to visit a small handful of shops, purchasing new clothing and supplies for the rest of their journey.  The sword they are able to acquire, Shiro notes, is nowhere close in quality to what he's accustomed to — but it will have to do.  Something is better than nothing, and he cannot ask for much when they are in a hurry.  Throughout all of the transactions, Keith remains silent.  He does not react when addressed, even though he makes eye contact with the people they encounter.  Perhaps he's shy, Shiro supposes.  Or perhaps he's been put off social interaction entirely, considering the wide berth most people give them as they go on about their business.

They pay for one night's stay in a local inn, the price for a room with two separate beds nearly enough to feed a small family for several fortnights.  Even so, Keith fails to bat an eyelash as the innkeeper recites the number back at them.  It's only when Shiro nudges him with his elbow, asking him if he's alright with paying that much, that Keith reacts.  He blinks owlishly at him, looking as if he's walked in on the middle of a particularly convoluted conversation, before he nods.

The innkeeper slides the keys over the counter as they pay the fee, and then they're making their way upstairs with only the lights of the sconces serving as their guide.  Shiro wastes no time finding the number that matches the one engraved on the keys, slipping inside — and subsequently collapsing on the bed.  A bath awaits him, but for the moment, he's content to bask in the sensation of an actual bed.  He wishes he never had to sleep on the ground every again.

Keith, for his part, sits on the foot of the bed adjacent to his own.  He pulls his cloak tighter around his own body, shooting a look Shiro's way.  "Go. Bathe," he tells. "I'll go in after you."

Shiro doesn't have to be told twice.

He takes his sweet time washing several day's worth of dirt, sweat and blood off his skin. His injuries are still tender to the touch, his bruises beginning to change color at the edges, and he can't help but to note how pale he looks. It's something he's been vaguely aware of since the morning he set off with Keith, but so far, he had chalked it up to the aftereffects of getting beaten within an inch of his life. Now, he isn't so sure. It's not like he's been avoiding sunlight this whole time.  He's been eating adequately, as well.  He knows he's not back to optimal condition, but he assumed he would have more color to his skin than _this_.

It's with these thoughts in mind that he dries himself off, slipping into his new clothing before moving to inspect himself in the bathroom mirror.

( _"I guess they thought you were dead."_ )

—He screams.

Keith bursts into the bathroom in record time, just as Shiro's scream turns strangled and ragged in his throat.  His companion's eyes are wide with alarm.  Even with hysteria clawing at him, he can see the way Keith takes stock of their surroundings, searching for assailants that are not there.  A moment later, his eyes are settling on Shiro's trembling, sickly form.  Concern and confusion are both present in his expression; Shiro gets front row seats to it as Keith unceremoniously invades his personal space.

"Shiro," he breathes out, uncertain. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"What's wrong?" Shiro parrots back, hysteria tinging his tone. "Are you blind? Look at me and tell me _this_ is normal!"

 _This_ , of course, being the fact that Shiro looks like he has one foot in the grave. Unnaturally pale skin, sunken cheeks, and sickly looking bruises around his eyes. His lips have gained something of a blue hue, dry and chapped — features that Shiro had initially brushed off as a result of his impromptu journey, but now knew had _other_ origins. His veins have become somewhat visible under his skin, and though this might be considered fashionable in another kingdom, that is not the case for the alteans.

He looks like shit.

Keith's mouth opens and closes several times. There's something in his expression that reminds Shiro of a freshly caught fish; the uncoordinated flailing, the lack of comprehension behind its beady eyes. Though Shiro now understands why so many people were giving them ( _him_ ) a wide berth, it apparently takes Keith a moment to catch on. "You looked worse before," he answers him, quietly. "Just give it a couple more days."

"You said the galra thought I was dead," Shiro says, heart jackhammering against his ribcage. "Is this what you meant?"

Keith nods, subdued, his expression carefully blank as he meets Shiro's eyes.

"Yeah."

* * *

**08\. They head out first thing in the morning.**

Keith had washed up after Shiro's small breakdown in the bathroom, slipping into new clothing but refusing to discard the cloak while the mountains that watch over the ruins of Daibazaal comes into view.  The temperatures grow uncomfortably warm after that, the air becoming thicker and more difficult to breathe in.  While Shiro has to put some effort in pretending he isn't bothered by it, Keith carries on as he normally would — or close enough to it. 

He only moves to unclasp his cloak once his hair starts sticking to his neck and face. When he moves to push his bangs out of his forehead, his arms bare for the first time since they met, Shiro notices something bright and red etched onto the skin of his right bicep. It's a startlingly familiar shape, one that Shiro has seen practically every day of his life. It's the same as the crescent marks that denote Allura's divine heritage, the unnatural color on her cheeks serving as proof of their supernatural origins. It's the same as the ink-black mark on the small of Shiro's back.

The mark of Altea's Goddess.

"That's a curious shape for a tattoo," he finds himself blurting out, his mouth moving without his explicit permission.

Keith startles, jerking back in one clumsy movement. Shiro watches him lower his arm nearly immediately, pressing it against his side like that would distract him from the bright red on his skin. "I— Uh," he says, _eloquently_ , sounding very much like a small child who has been caught with a face-full of cookie crumbs. "Yeah. It's... Voltron. The Crest of the Goddess."

He knows that. Anyone who has been raised within Altea's borders knows that. _Voltron_. Their patron deity. A goddess of creation. He remembers the way the old sages would drone on and on about her myth, citing the ancient scriptures with practiced ease. _She is one_ , they would say, _but she is many_. She had spread her powers, her knowledge and her determination among five mortals, granting them godhood. Through them, she lives on, forever watching over the people of this world. They are the Celestial Guardians.

They are the gods Allura has never been able to communicate with. The ones who have shunned her despite the long hours spent at the temples, praying and praying and _praying_ to no avail.

"I didn't take you for a believer," Shiro says, unable to stop the bitterness from seeping into his tone.

But Keith only gives him a crooked smile, like there's something he's privy to that Shiro has knowledge of. An inside joke. A wretched secret. He shakes his head, the way he clenches his fists indicative of his feelings on the matter, right before huffing out a laugh. It's broken sound, wrapped up in a bitterness that eerily mirrors Shiro's own.

"That's because I'm not," he tells him.

And then he's taking off on his own, leaving Shiro to catch up with him.

* * *

**09\. They reach Daibazaal by their fifth night.**

The sight is just as terrible as the stories say.

It's something shared among the common folk in hushed whispers, people's expressions crumbling in dismay as they remember the tragedy that befell the citizens of Daibazaal. A city that thrived upon the coal industry, its mines rich with resources as the eponymous mountain loomed over it. He remembers hearing King Alfor speak of a fire; of how the earth caved, the city sinking underground as the flames within the mines raged on. It's been twenty years since that day, and the fire within Daibazaal still burns.

It's no man's land, and for good reason.

By now, the miasma is so clodding and encompassing that Shiro can barely _breathe_ through it. A rattling cough takes residence within his chest, bringing his attention once again to the bruises littered across his torso. Each and every breath that's forced out of his lungs causes a new wave of pain to wash over his senses, but even so, he presses on. He _has_ to. If he doesn't. he will never see Allura again. If he doesn't, he would be allowing his queen and his citizens to slip through his fingers, all because he was too weak.

Keith seems to be well aware of his declining health. His expression is pinched as they tentatively set up camp in the outskirts of the city, sufficiently far away that neither of them fear having the ground crumble beneath them as they sleep.

"... Shiro," he calls out, and there's something achingly familiar in the way he pronounces his name. "You don't have to do this. It's not too late to go back."

He sounds so small at that moment that Shiro can't bring himself to get angry at him. Not really. "I'm not leaving Allura behind, Keith," he responds, trying to make his conviction clear through his words. A part of him wants to convince Keith to carry on with him, to stay by his side throughout tomorrow. For all of their initial misgivings, he's become oddly accustomed to Keith's presence. Getting rid of him now would feel a little bit like amputating a healthy limb.

That doesn't mean he can force him to stay, though.  Not now, not ever.  Shiro is aware he has something of a nasty habit; he never says what ails him.  He always places the needs of others above his own, even when it's detrimental to his own health.  It's far too easy for him to offer his companion a smile as he adds: "I understand if this is as far as you'll go. I can take over from here."

Keith's expression, in response, is _wretched_. " _No._ You're not doing this by yourself," he says, the words stumbling out of his mouth in a desperate, furious mess. "I'm _not_ leaving you behind again!"

_Again._

( _Smoke and ash. A woman with sharp teeth and bright yellow eyes._

_Keith's broken form beneath Shiro's own body, his eyes unseeing as he holds his hand out towards someone just beyond his reach._

_"Katie," he chokes out, gurgling through his own blood. "Hunk. Lance."_

_Behind them, a witch laughs.  She controls Shiro's will like a puppeteer would with their creation, invisible strings tugging at his limbs.  He's aware, with what little remains of his consciousness, that this is all his fault.  That he was unable to keep her from messing with his head._

_"Finish him."_

_Shiro takes aim._ )

When he comes to, he realizes he's no longer standing on his own two feet. His back is against the ground, someone's hands cupping his cheeks as his name is called over and over and over again. He doesn't know how long it's been. All he knows is that it takes him a moment to regain his focus, his brain unable to process the information fed to it by his eyes before, _finally_ , he notices Keith's face hovering over his own.

Fear is a hauntingly familiar expression on Keith's face. The tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, even more so.

"Hey," Keith breathes, and he sounds so unbelievably frightened. His hands are cold and clammy, a slight tremble in his fingers as his thumbs stroke lazy circles into his cheeks.  He wonders if Keith is even aware of what he's doing. "Good to have you back with us, buddy."

Shiro takes a moment to simply breathe, smoke settling into his useless lungs.  His body is but a vessel, and right now — it's succumbing to his expectations of how a body _should_ function. "Keith," he begins, rolling the name around in his mouth as if uttering it for the first time. "Did you know I never told you my name?"

Keith goes very, very still above him. Shiro grips at his wrists before he can even think to pull away, keeping his hands over his face. Slowly, as if dealing with a frightened animal, he shifts their position until the tips of his fingers are touching Shiro's lips. Keith watches him with frightened intensity; eyes wide, lips parted, _unbreathing_.

"We've met before," he says, voice only slightly muffled beneath Keith's hands. He can feel him twitch as his breath fans against the calloused skin, but he makes no move to pull away.

"Yes," Keith admits, his voice barely a whisper. "We have."

"Then you know why I have to go," he utters, watching as Keith squeezes his eyes shut before him. "You know why I can't let this continue."

"This was a mistake," his companion ( _his partner_ ) confesses, weighted down with grief. Words continue to slip through his mouth as he begins to shake, suddenly confronted two decade's worth of regrets. "I should have taken you back to the castle. You would have been safe there. I— I can't let you do this. _I don't want you to do this._ "

One of his hands makes its way up Keith's arm, fingers brushing against nineteen year old nicks and scars. There's a raised line of flesh on the back of Keith's neck, nearly imperceivable underneath his hair.  Once upon a time, it was an injury deep enough to cut through bone and ligaments, permanently severing something more precious than what the naked eye can perceive.  It's the reason Keith can no longer interact with humanity.

Shiro knows it's there because he's the one responsible for it. 

"Keith," he repeats, his name a reverent whisper on his lips. His fingers are kneading into the other man's hair, pulling him towards him with an urgency that only gravity can understand. "I'm sorry."

Being sorry has never saved the world. Being sorry never stopped Shiro from laying waste to three of his beloved friends, his limbs moving of their own accord as he turned Keith's own power against the people they had come to love and cherish like family. They were _Voltron_. A unit of five meant to work seamlessly as one.

Two was too lonely a number to consider, but it was all they had left.

Keith sobs into his chest, inconsolable and unbidden.

* * *

**10\. The last time they were here, it didn't end so well.**

( _Keith's blood is slick in Shiro's hands._

_"The age of the gods is over, Voltron," Zarkon's witch says, red crescent marks visible on her cheeks. "You will pay for what you have done to my lord."_

_Her hypocrisy does not go unnoticed._ )

This time, they're determined to avoid such a grisly fate.

With his newfound (though fuzzy) awareness of his true nature, Shiro can feel the magic lingering in the surrounding area. The miasma of smoke and fire and _death_ doesn't seem as oppressive as it once was, the glamour falling short upon closer inspection. While his body is but a vessel built from flesh and blood, designed to tether him to the world of men, it doesn't change the fact that he is a god.

And gods can only be killed by other gods.

"Are you ready?" he asks, the cave's mouth a gaping maw before them. His new sword is a comfortable, if unfamiliar weight on his hip.

"It's not too late to turn away," Keith insists, for what seems to be the nth time.

"I'm not changing my mind, Keith."

The weary sigh he receives in response is so exaggerated, he's certain King Alfor is able to hear it all the way back in the royal burial grounds. "Fine," Keith replies, "Then I'm ready."

Fire licks at their bodies as they make their way into the caverns, harmless and incapable of doing anything except confirm the fact that _someone_ really doesn't want them to be here. Garbled, distorted screams reach their ears soon after, and a chill runs up Shiro's spine as he recognizes the words hidden among their incoherent cries.

_"Please!"_

_"I want to go home!"_

_"It burns! It burns! It burns! Itburn **sitburnsit** —"_

Keith's hand is on his shoulder.

Shiro becomes aware of the fact that he's stopped moving, his feet rooted to the spot. He recognizes the look on Keith's face more easily now, millenniums of knowledge sluggishly returning to him, and he understands that there's something he desperately wants to say. But Shiro cuts him off before he can even begin, offering him what he hopes to be a comforting smile.

"I'm fine," he says, softly. "Let's keep moving."

The screams increase in volume and intensity as they approach the source.

It's a gruesome scene.

Hundreds of humans have been put on display before him. Some showing signs of life, some _not_. There's a distinct smell of rotting flesh lingering in the air. There are _piles_ in the corners of the room, vermin skittering around to obtain their meal. The ones who are alive have been shoved into cages, some sort of device wrapped around their throats, glowing a bright blue as something is extracted from their bodies. Women, children, men. People both elderly and young. As he scans the area, he realizes what Keith meant by _experiments_ , all those days ago.

Quintessence is life. 

And Haggar has someone she desperately wishes to return to the world of the living.

Keith stays by his side as they travel deeper into the cavern, his whole body thrumming with tension .  The humans around them watch them, a wild look to their eyes as they either cower or reach out for them — crying, yelling, _screaming_.  Some are physically here, while their minds are miles away from their bodies.  Others seem to be more lucid, but their desperate pleas are not any easier to swallow than the ones who are not. Shiro reaches for the lock on one of the cages, expression pinching as an elderly woman tries to make herself seem as small as humanly possible.

"We have to get them out of here," he says, sparing at glance at his other half.

"We will," Keith affirms, his eyes darting nervously around the room. "Where's Haggar?"

Shiro shakes his head. "I don't know," he admits, and it unsettles him terribly to realize that beside the prisoners, _they're_ the only ones here.  No galra. No Haggar. No one.

This does not bode well.

They prioritize.  Help the prisoners escape first. Then, search for Haggar.  Every moment that passes where they're not ambushed only serves to raise the tension.

It's when they're halfway through the room that Shiro's eyes land on long, curly white hair and blue eyes.

"— _Shiro?_ "

" _Allura!_ "

He's running towards her before he even realizes what he's doing, Keith's startled yelp far behind him as he dashes forward.  She's here. She's alive. She's within his reach now, and he makes short work of the lock on her cage, her weight collapsing on top of him as they both collapse into an ungraceful heap against the wall, only taking enough care to avoid damaging her throat by jostling the device currently coiled around it. She places her hands on both sides of his face, her eyes wide as she takes him in.

"You're real," she croaks out, her voice hoarse.  Whether it is from screaming or because of the device currently attached to her, Shiro isn't sure he wants to know.

"Yeah," he breathes out. "I'm real."

Allura doesn't hesitate to pull him into a hug, her chin propped on his shoulder as she squeezes him with strength that belies her ashen, emaciated appearance. "How?" she asks.

Shiro shifts just enough to turn his head around, looking around the room until he locates Keith.  His partner is currently in the middle of helping a small gaggle of humans out of their cages, their relieved cries audible.  Keith meets his gaze, his eyes wide and uncomprehending even as he does his best to settle the prisoners down. 

( _"I can't,"_ Keith had once told him.

The language of men is lost on him.)

He feels Allura stiffen in his arms at the same time Keith's expression shifts into one of horror, the humans around him screaming as they scramble to reach the exit.

"Shiro!" Keith yells, too little too late.

Allura is unsheathing Shiro's sword in an instant, her expression twisting into one of sheer rage as she swings the blade. " _You!_ "

Smoke coils around them.  Something dark, powerful and ancient grips at his throat.  Allura is looking around, eyes wild as she tries to locate her target.  All too suddenly, Shiro finds himself face to face with a living nightmare.

"Two guardians _and_ Alfor's brat," Haggar croons, her smile wide.  Her hand is wrapped around Shiro's neck, effortlessly lifting him up. Behind him, someone calls his name. "It must be my lucky day."

There is a flurry of movement. Shiro finds himself falling to the ground, coughing and hacking as Keith abruptly materializes beside him. Or — perhaps he had been there all along, and Shiro's perception of time had begun to lose cohesion.  He can hear Allura fighting against the witch, two sacred alteans pitted against one another as the remaining prisoners begin to vociferate.  Keith pulls Shiro's right hand to his chest, meeting his eyes.

Shiro knows what he's supposed to do.  It's almost as if he had never forgotten in the first place.

He plunges his right hand into Keith's chest, reaching for the gift that had been bestowed upon them. Evidence of the pact they had formed with one another, bowing to exist as _one_.

When he pulls away, there is a sword in his hand.

* * *

**11\. Once upon a time, there had been five of them.**

And though they all basked in her gifts equally, each of them embodied a different aspect of the goddess.

Keith and Katie were the epitome of her _power_. A blazing sword and an indestructible shield, ready to defend the most vulnerable and weary. Keith had been his right hand man since the very beginning. The goddess had come to both of them at the same time, their hands clasped together as the she bestowed her gifts upon them. Katie had walked into Shiro's life some years later, deceitfully small and youthful looking, but capable of outwitting even the strongest men the world had to offer. He had loved her as his own sister.

Hunk and Lance represented the goddess's _knowledge._ Knowledge of the science of men. Knowledge of the _heart_ of men. Shiro couldn't quite reach into their souls to retrieve a weapon, but that didn't make them useless in the heat of battle. The raw potential of their magic was a sight to behold; Hunk could conjure nearly anything out of thin air, while Lance's accuracy was absolutely frightening. They had arrived in Shiro's life at the same time, Hunk sweating profusely as Lance proceeded to (unsuccessfully) try and smooth-talk their way out of an unpleasant situation. Katie had sworn to never allow them to live it down, and she had upheld that promise up to the day of their deaths.

For some reason, the goddess had chosen to bestow her _decisiveness_ upon Shiro. Keith always joked this meant he had been given the ability to be unrelentingly _bullheaded_ , and for the most part, Shiro had to agree. But in the more quiet moments of their lives, when the five of them were able to travel the world without the weight of mankind's sins on their shoulders, other theories surged up. They said it meant he was resilient. They said it gave him the strength to persevere throughout the darkest of times. They said, as they all grew closer together as a makeshift family, that it gave each and every one of them _hope_.

It's ironic, then, that he ended up being the one to drive Keith's sword through their hearts, effectively putting an end to their hopes.

It's ironic that he ended up plunging the sword through his own chest at the last possible moment, granting Keith the opportunity to escape — but at a price.

In the present, Allura sits on her bed.  She is injured; burns mar her skin where Haggar's magic had hit its intended target, a bruise on her neck from the device used to drain her quintessence, and a gash cutting across stomach.  Nonetheless, she is alive — and well on her way to a full recovery.  That is, if she allows herself the time to recover.  It's only been a mere two days, and she's already asked them to meet with her, her need to be caught up with the events that transpired unhampered by the state of her body.

"Then..." she says, a frown on her lips as she looks at the two men sitting at the foot of her bed. "The reason I was unable to hear the voice of the Guardians, was because I had one at my side this entire time?"

Keith nods, arms crossed as he stares pointedly at the ground. Like Allura, the edges of a two day old burn are visible beneath the collar of his shirt, the damage extending all the way down to his wrist and hip. He carries himself with a noticeable limp whenever he walks, the damage to his right knee too grievous for even a god to simply disregard. Shiro isn't faring too well, either, but he staunchly ignores what he's lost in favor of focusing on what he's _gained_.

All victories come at a cost, that is the law of the land. That does not mean, however, that the price isn't worth it.

Allura furrows her brows, her mind likely running at a breakneck speed. "But what of you? You never heard my call?"

"I can't hear _anyone,_ " he snaps back, and he sounds distraught enough that Shiro stops himself from scolding him for his tone. "Not in my head, and not — normally. Not anymore. Every time I try, all I hear is a mess."

( _The language of men is lost on Keith._

His behavior in the town they visited makes more sense, now that Shiro is equipped with the knowledge of what Keith had lost the first time they faced against Haggar. With the knowledge that Shiro himself had severed his link with the world of mortals, running Keith's own sword through the back of his neck and leaving him with nothing but suffocating silence within his head.

It's just another thing to add to Shiro's long list of mistakes. Another thing he needs to make amends for, after falling victim to Haggar's control.)

He dips in and out of their conversation, Allura's curiosity and thirst for knowledge leading her to bombard Keith with question after question. He wonders how long it's been since Keith was able to hold a conversation like this, Allura's connection with the divine being the only reason he's able to understand her at all. The answer to that question is, most likely, _a very long time_ — and he ends up wishing he hadn't thought about it at all.

Even so, Keith seems to be steadily growing more comfortable with the queen's presence. His shoulders are no longer as stiff as they were days ago, and even though he refuses to meet her gaze, Shiro can see a hint of a smile as the queen continues to inquire about all sorts of things.

It reminds Shiro a little of when he had been brought to the castle for the first time. Lost and mistrustful, he hadn't known how to relax until King Alfor had made a genuine effort to connect with him. Though it struck Shiro as a little cheesy at the time, the king had always told him the the gods had put him in his path. Now that he's become aware of how he ended up as a six-year-old boy in the first place, Shiro has his suspicions about what Alfor truly meant.

He's pulled back into the conversation when Allura suddenly calls his name.

"Wait," he starts, in a display of pure eloquence. "What?"

She huffs out a laugh, apparently finding his reaction amusing, before she elaborates. "As I was telling Keith," she says, gesturing with her hand towards his partner. "Shiro, you are living proof that gods cannot die.  Though your body was severely damaged in the past, you were able to return to this realm.  Wouldn't it be logical to assume your friends may have been able to do the same?"

There are still certain parts of his memories that are fuzzy around the edges.  Recollections that evoke particularly strong emotions come to him more easily.  The same cannot be said for those that involve more factual knowledge, the intricacies of godhood lost to him in the tangled mess that currently makes up his mind.  "... I don't know," he admits, turning to Keith for guidance. "What do you think?"

Keith remains silent for a moment, one of his hands balled into a fist as he rubs his thumb against the outer corner of his index finger. Shiro at least remembers enough to recognize that as the nervous gesture that it is. "... I... I guess it's possible," he responds, sounding so terribly hopeful and unsure. "But I didn't know Shiro was alive for _years_.  None of us had died before."

Allura hums thoughtfully, leaning back into the mountain of pillows behind her. "Does Shiro look the same as you remember him, Keith?"

To his credit, Shiro keeps himself from squirming when Keith turns to inspect him,

"... He does."

"Then... Guardians," Allura begins, a smile gracing her lips. "I ask that you describe your friends to me down to the most minute of details. Are you up for this task?"

He hears the exact moment Keith's breath catches in his throat, his hand stilling. Though Shiro thinks he knows better than to allow himself to hope, the guilt from his past actions weighting down on him, he can't quite stop his heart from wanting to soar out his chest.

Their answer is instantaneous.

_"Yes."_

Voltron will be reborn.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on: [tumblr](http://carcinology.tumblr.com/) • [twitter](https://twitter.com/beheads).


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